


Lovely, Dark, and Deep

by OllieoftheBeholder



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Episode 170, Isolation, M/M, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, The Lonely - Freeform, Whumptober 2020, in which I project my own Asexual Experience onto the Archivist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieoftheBeholder/pseuds/OllieoftheBeholder
Summary: Jon thought Martin was right behind him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962028
Comments: 8
Kudos: 102
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Lovely, Dark, and Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt No.8 of Whumptober 2020: Isolation.
> 
> (a.k.a. basically just Ep170 from Jon's POV, but _man,_ that episode gave me feels.)

“I think we’re almost out,” Jon said, glancing around him. It was hard to tell for sure by the appearance of the realms—that was the point of them, after all, to seem infinite—but the sense that had guided them thus far told Jon they didn’t have much farther to go. “It’s amazing. I haven’t felt that need to make a statement about this one. I wonder if it’s because there’s no avatar here? Or at least because I took one out prior to...all of this?”

He glanced over his shoulder to solicit Martin’s thoughts on the matter and felt his blood run ice cold.

Martin wasn’t there.

“Martin?” he called sharply, stopping and turning around. There were dozens—hundreds—of people around him, all of them fading through various shades of grey, all of them seeming to ignore one another, and all of them looking lost and bewildered and upset. But nowhere in the room could Jon see the tall, broad-shouldered teddy bear of a man who should have been following him.

He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and took a few deep, slow breaths. He knew what Martin looked like, of course he did. He held the image in his mind for a second: the mop of curly hair now streaked with white, the round glasses, the jumper he favored particularly because Jon had once offhandedly complimented it (and then spent the next several hours hiding in his office panicking that he’d said too much). The vibrant colors that made up the man. He even flipped through several possible facial expressions he could be making—exasperation at Jon’s pace or forced politeness at wading through people who didn’t notice him or (hopefully) mild panic. Dismissing that as an unimportant detail, he opened his eyes and looked around.

Nothing.

“Martin!” Jon called again. No response. There was nothing for it; he’d have to retrace his steps. Hopefully Martin had had the sense to stay put wherever he was when they got separated—how _had_ they gotten separated? Martin had been right behind him the whole time, when he wasn’t right beside him. A crowd must have pushed between them. Jon must have just been going too fast to notice. That _had_ to be it. It had to have been a crowd. He’d find Martin in one of the rooms, sitting on one of the probably-uncomfortable chairs, waiting for Jon to come back.

He wouldn’t have kept moving, Jon told himself as he started back the way he’d come, looking frantically around him. He’d have _stayed._ If he didn’t know where Jon had gone, he’d have stayed in the last room he was in, waiting for him, and Jon could just...retrace the route. Simple.

The problem with this place was that every room was exactly like every other room. Indistinguishable, unremarkable, impersonal. Short of marking the walls, there was no way to be absolutely certain what rooms he’d passed through and what rooms he hadn’t. And the route he Knew, he realized as he started backwards, was the route _forward._ They’d committed to this course, to heading to London and the Panopticon and the Eye and Elias, and he Knew where they were going. He didn’t Know where they’d _been,_ except in the vaguest and most general of senses. They’d been through six nightmare realms so far, this being the seventh. But he couldn’t say for certain where _exactly_ they’d been. This place was deliberately meant to be obfuscating, to keep you in a perpetual state of...not confusion, that was the Spiral’s bailiwick, but...

_Isolation,_ his brain supplied helpfully, and Jon cursed at it. He did _not_ need the reminder of which domain they were in. Which domain he’d thought, mercifully, he would escape without the need to make a statement about it. He did _not_ want to think about this domain, this entity, _at all._ There was nothing, no one, here for him to take revenge on—he’d already done that—but, God, did he want to tear this house to pieces, brick by brick. He wanted to grab each person he passed by the shoulders and say _I see you, I know you, there are others here, you are not alone—_ but he couldn’t. He couldn’t interfere in another entity’s domain, couldn’t free any of these people from their nightmares.

Couldn’t...oh, God. Isolation. Nightmares. _Martin._

“Martin!” Jon bellowed, a little louder. He strained to hear. There was no sound but the faint susurration of the whispers of the people trapped here. There were so many of them, but each one thought they were alone. The ones that were talking—the ones that were still strong enough to talk to themselves, to make themselves feel a little less... _no._ Even them he couldn’t hear clearly, even when he strained to do it.

They were so convinced no one was listening that the one person who _was_ listening couldn’t hear them. _Martin._ No. No, Martin _had_ to know he was there, had to know he was coming. He couldn’t have forgotten. He couldn’t have...given up.

Unbidden, the thought of the last time he’d been in...this entity’s domain came to his mind. The fog, God, the ever-present fog. Calling desperately. The smarmy, taunting voice telling him _He doesn’t want to see you._ He’d _known_ that was a lie then, known it with a desperate certainty. Peter Lukas had worked on Martin, eroded away at him for _months,_ whittled him down until he was—until he _thought_ he was nothing, less than nothing. Until he’d been willing to stay, thought he deserved it.

Jon had never told Martin, but he’d come close to succumbing, too. It wasn’t like he’d never been l—solitary before. He’d spent most of his strange, unhappy childhood with nothing but books for company, and it had almost been too late when he’d learned to make friends. He’d tried too hard to be professional his first year as Archivist and only hadn’t managed to isolate himself completely because all of his assistants, in their own way, had insisted on remaining or becoming a part of his life. And then after the worms, after the discovery of Gertrude Robinson’s body, when Jon had let his paranoia get the better of him and sealed himself away from everyone...only Martin hadn’t let him, even then, had fought to keep him present. And it would have been worse after Leitner’s murder and he’d gone on the run if Georgie hadn’t taken him in, at least at first. He’d certainly felt it then. He knew what it felt like. He’d almost given in to the fog.

But he’d held on, held onto the fact that Martin was in the fog somewhere. He wasn’t alone—neither of them were alone, because Martin had been there and so had Jon and even if they couldn’t see one another yet, they were both _there._ So he’d called Martin’s name, and then he’d found Peter Lukas and fought him and won, which he never would have been able to do if Martin hadn’t already fought him and won. And then he’d found Martin again, and Martin had seen him, and they’d come out of the fog together.

They’d done it once. They could do it again. Jon just had to _find_ him before...no.

“Martin!” he called again, somewhere between a shout and a sob. This wasn’t happening, this _couldn’t_ be happening. He couldn’t have been so feeble, so _stupid_ as to lose sight of Martin in a place like this. A place that had almost taken him once.

Desperate, almost frantic, he wandered through room after room, searching, calling. Martin _had_ to be here somewhere. God, how many rooms did this damned house have?

It didn’t matter, he realized. The realm was as infinite as it needed to be, and also as limited. Every room was different, but every room was the same. It could hold thousands of people, but each one would assume that they were the only one.

That they had always been the only one.

Jon fought down the panic and tried to think. Martin _had_ to be in here somewhere. It was a feature of the domain. There was no way out beyond death, and it was too...early? Was that the word? The entities weren’t ready to relinquish their victims just yet. Death wouldn’t be able to start feeding off the other realms until it had completely depleted its own store. There was no way to leave, ergo, Martin had not left. The only one who knew the way out was Jon, and Jon was not with Martin; therefore, Martin had not found the way out. He _must_ be somewhere in this house.

Yes, all right, that was perfectly logical and all that nonsense. But “somewhere” covered a lot of ground. And Jon didn’t know where he’d let Martin slip away.

_Know._ Discomfort fluttered through Jon’s stomach. He’d been trying very hard to find Martin the traditional way, not to use his abilities. He’d promised to stay out of Martin’s head, and he _had._ Martin was the most important thing in the universe to him, even before he’d become the only real thing he had left, and he wouldn’t do anything to ruin that. Including, and especially, betray his trust.

But...this was different. Martin was lost somewhere...no, not lost, just... _missing_. This realm was near-infinite. Jon could wander forever and not find him, and although time wasn’t really a factor anymore _per se,_ he was desperately afraid that if he took too long finding Martin, Martin would succumb. Maybe...think he’d been abandoned on purpose. That Jon saw him as a burden, a drag on his mission, or worse—that Jon had been humoring him up to this point, that he’d never intended to do what he could to fix the mess he’d been used to cause, and that he’d abandoned him at the first possible opportunity so he could...enjoy the apocalypse.

No. No, Martin _had_ to know Jon wasn’t like that. Jon loved Martin, had loved him for longer than he’d been willing to admit, _would_ love him until the end of the universe. And Martin loved him, had loved him even when he’d been doing his best to push him away, _would_ love him as long as he had the capacity. He’d said as much, so many times, and Jon believed him without even needing his powers. He saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his touch. Martin _had_ to know that Jon felt the same way. It wasn’t like he was subtle about it, for God’s sake.

Martin hadn’t left Jon, even after he’d accidentally ended the world. He had to know that went both ways. He _had_ to.

Jon took a deep breath. He was starting to spiral. It wasn’t the first panic attack he’d ever had in his life, but it was definitely on its way to being one of the worst. That wouldn’t help him. Or Martin. He had to hold on to that. _Martin needs you. Keep it together. You have to find Martin. You can’t fall apart in a nightmare._

Right. So. He’d promised not to pry into Martin’s head. But it was the only way Jon could guarantee he’d find him. Surely Martin would forgive him, if— _when—_ he knew. Because Jon _would_ tell him, as soon as he found him. They were trying to be honest with one another, about what they did, how they felt. They were _trying_ to communicate. Jon wasn’t particularly good at it, but he was trying. So he would Look, he would Know where Martin was, and he would find him and apologize and they would get the hell out of there.

He took another deep breath and concentrated on the question: _Where is Martin?_

A beat passed, another. Jon strained as hard as he could. He could...he could _feel_ Martin’s mind out there, somewhere, in a room. Feel something about him. He was...talking. To someone? Most likely to himself. Jon couldn’t pick up the words. Everything was...muffled. Muted.

Faded.

_No._

He had to have hope. The ones who were still talking were the ones who hadn’t given up yet. They talked because the sound of their voice made them feel less alone. If Martin was talking...that meant he was still holding on. It was when he stopped...Jon could feel the pauses in his words, and every time he stopped talking, he could feel him slipping a little farther away.

“ _Martin!”_ Jon shouted, his voice cracking with desperation and fear. “Martin, please answer me, _please._ ”

Just like that, he heard his name, or maybe felt it. For a moment, there was a bright flare, almost of light, like a beacon, and Jon rushed towards it desperately. He went through a door, though, and the light was gone, leaving him even more lost than before.

No. _Not_ lost. He wasn’t lost, and neither was Martin. They were...separated. It was just temporary. They would find one another. There was no way they would be trapped forever in this hellscape.

Well. _Jon_ wouldn’t be trapped forever. He was too much the Eye’s creature to be trapped anywhere. These nightmares, as he’d told Martin repeatedly, weren’t _for_ him—for _them._ This one was just trying to take Martin because he’d been Marked by the Lonely.

There.

He’d thought it.

This was the Lonely.

And it was trying to take Martin away from him.

_No._

Martin was his anchor—had been a lot longer than he’d admitted it, even to himself. He’d wondered, once or twice, distantly, what would have happened if he’d realized that before going into the Buried after Daisy, if he’d realized a body part wouldn’t be his best choice for an anchor and used something else, like one of the recordings Martin had made of his poems while he’d been trapped in the Archives. If Martin’s voice wouldn’t have brought him safely out of the coffin sooner, and forced Elias—Jonah—to scramble for another way to have the Flesh mark him. If they’d have been able to suss out Jonah’s plan and foil it before it could fully realize. He couldn’t Know the future, even hypotheticals, but he’d still gone over it time and again. He’d never mentioned it to Martin, figuring his boyfriend had enough to worry about. But whenever he got a quiet moment to himself, he thought about it. And now Martin wasn’t there to keep him steady.

For a moment, Jon was tempted to give in to despair, the despair he’d been fighting since he’d woken on the floor of the cabin in Martin’s arms and heard the roar from outside and known, even more than Known, what it meant. He couldn’t get through this on his own. Even if he believed they were doing any good, even if he thought there was a chance that Gertrude was wrong and he could fix the apocalypse, he knew he couldn’t do it without Martin there to ground him, to give him a reason to go on. He _did_ think those things, but...but it was Martin that made him _believe_ that, Martin’s quiet strength and gentle guidance and above all the feel of his fingers laced through Jon’s when they strode through the more difficult terrain.

God, why hadn’t Jon held his hand? He’d _known_ this would be a tricky one, but stupidly, he’d thought they would be okay. He’d thought that, because the floors were even and the path was regular and the people were...only barely there and not enough to really affect them physically, that they didn’t need to help each other walk. He was _such_ an idiot. He always had been, really. He’d thought the end of the world would be enough of a monument to stupidity, assumed that there really couldn’t be more evidence that he made decisions that were both moronic and outright _bad_ than the fact that he’d earnestly believed he was saving the people he loved, and the entire world, but was in fact taking gigantic leaps and bounds towards destroying them all.

He’d been wrong, because now his idiocy had cost him the one thing the apocalypse had spared him. It had cost him _Martin._

No. _No!_ Jon couldn’t let himself believe that. He _couldn’t_ believe that this was it. Martin was still out there, he was still talking, and Jon _would_ find him and once he did he would never let him go again. Martin was damn well going to have to listen to the next statement Jon had to make, because Jon was _scared,_ damn it, and he was going to hold on to Martin as long as he could. Maybe even longer.

He _felt_ something again, all at once. Something in his heart getting warmer, a strengthening of his willpower and determination, a grounding. He felt as if his foundations had been reinforced, all of a sudden. He could almost hear a voice thrumming through his chest, a steady, rhythmic chant, panic slowly easing out of the voice as it grew stronger and stronger—

Wait. He _could_ hear a voice.

“ _Martin!_ ” he shouted, putting every last bit of love and desperation and need in his body into his voice to give it as much volume as he could.

He heard his name, faintly, in reply, and his head snapped around. He practically ran, his steps taking him faster and farther than he’d thought possible. “Martin! Martin?”

“Jon! Jon, over here!”

Martin’s voice was the most wonderful thing Jon had ever heard. Jon gasped out in relief as he focused his knowledge on Martin’s whereabouts. “Martin, hold on, I—I’m coming, I just—”

And then he burst through the next doorway and _there Martin was,_ on his feet, face pale and eyes wet, clutching something tightly in one hand and head turned towards Jon. Relief flooded through Jon’s entire body and he almost collapsed before he made it to Martin’s side. “Oh, Martin, thank God, I—I was—”

He broke off, unable to finish the sentence, and simply wrapped his arms around Martin tightly. Martin was cold, so very cold, as cold as he’d been the last time the Lonely had almost taken him away, but he was solid and _real_ and his heart thudded strongly in his chest, and his arms as they went around Jon were just as firm as always. He was alive. He was safe. He was _here._

“I—I thought you were behind me,” Jon managed.

Martin let out a soft breath—and then uttered the words that almost broke Jon completely. “I thought you’d left me behind. Gone on without me.”

“No, never. N-never, I—I just—” Jon pulled back from the hug and looked up at Martin, and the words tumbled out of him in a panicked rush. “I—I didn’t want to—Look too h—I, I-I promised I wouldn’t Know you, and with the fog, and—and all the rooms, I—I just—I _lost_ you...” He managed to draw a breath, hoping it would steady him a little. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Martin replied immediately, and God, _how_ had Jon managed to get so lucky?

It took him a couple breaths— _both_ of them needed a couple breaths—before Jon managed to speak again. “No, I—I tried to use the—” He sighed, remembering he’d promised himself to be honest, and continued, “—to Know where you were, but it was—you—you were faint. It was so strange...it took me so long to find you.”

Martin squared his shoulders and straightened, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Jon, it’s—okay, I promise it’s okay. This place tried, it _really_ did, and honestly, I—” He sucked in a breath. “I wanted to believe it.” Before Jon could panic, he added, “But I didn’t.”

“This place, i-it—” Jon began. Before he could finish his sentence, his eyes lit on the object in Martin’s hand. A tape recorder.

The familiar static filled Jon’s head, and he suddenly Knew what was on that recorder. The statement filled his mind, telling him every word Martin had spoken into the device, every thought his boyfriend had had while struggling desperately to remember who he was, who _Jon_ was. His self-deprecating jokes and his pathetic wistfulness, his smallness, his fear. Everything Peter Lukas had tried to make of him...except now Jon could hear that stretching back _years,_ long before Martin had ever come to the Institute. Lukas had only built on what was already there.

“My God,” he whispered. The recorder was still whirring away, but Jon had heard the entire playback in a matter of seconds.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed.

Jon swallowed hard. What he was about to say went against every instinct he had...but he loved Martin, he had to give him a choice. Had to make sure he knew this wasn’t a forced death march or anything.

“M-Martin—if you—did,” he began. “I-if you wanted to forget a-all of it, stay here...” He closed his eyes for a brief second, fighting to get the words out. “I—I would understand.”

Time had no meaning in this place, in this post-apocalyptic world, so it was entirely possible that there _was_ an actual eternity in the heartbeat of silence after Jon’s words, who was to say?

“N-no,” Martin said finally, and Jon felt relief crash down on him like a physical force. “It’s comforting here, leaving all those—painful memories, behind, but—it’s not a good comfort, it’s—i-it’s the kind that makes you fade, makes you dim and...distant.”

“Okay,” Jon whispered. He licked his lips, then said in a more normal tone of voice, “Okay, good. I—” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I wanted to make sure you knew what this place was.”

“It’s the Lonely, Jon.” Martin’s voice, his eyes, were sad, almost resigned. “It’s me.”

The words pierced Jon through the heart. He pulled Martin back into a hug, even tighter than before. “Not anymore,” he said forcefully.

Martin gave a soft laugh that warmed Jon to his toes. He returned the embrace. “No,” he agreed. He let out all the air in his lungs in a long, deep rush. “No, not anymore.”

The sudden _click_ made both of them jump. Jon realized it was the tape recorder, still dangling from Martin’s hand, evidently deciding that whatever it needed to record was over. Martin pulled back and looked at the recorder. He began trembling, ever so faintly.

Gently, Jon took the device from him and stowed it in his bag. It was difficult, with only one hand, but he kept his other arm wrapped around Martin’s waist as he did so. He needed the comfort, the contact, probably as much as his boyfriend did. He wasn’t ready to relinquish that just yet. It would turn out to be two more nightmare hellscapes and a small but intense fight before Jon would let go of Martin again, even for a moment, but there was no way to Know the future. All he knew, or Knew, was that right now he needed to hold on to Martin, to be sure he wouldn’t be taken away again.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Quickly.”

Martin’s smile seemed to melt away some of the fog. “Lead on, then.”

They gripped one another’s hands tight enough to hurt, but Jon didn’t care. The pain was welcome if it meant knowing where Martin was. Jon tried to slow his pace a bit so Martin could keep up, but actually, he seemed to be moving along just fine. The fog had been what slowed him down before, and it didn’t seem to have any hold on him anymore.

At last, they emerged out the front door of the house and stood on a road leading between some barren fields. The Panopticon glowed in the distance, still watching over everything, and Jon Knew which way they had to go in order to reach their next stop. He even Knew which domain it was they would be passing through...which avatar they would meet when they did.

He stopped anyway.

He stopped and turned to Martin and looked up at him, intending to drink in the sight of him, to memorize the way his face looked in the sunlight, to map out the constellations in his freckles and navigate the topography of his curls. Instead, his eyes locked onto Martin’s and he was overcome, suddenly, by the powerful and crushing realization of _how close they had come._ He’d promised Martin nothing would hurt them. He’d promised he wouldn’t allow anything to harm Martin. And then he hadn’t been strong enough to hold on. He’d almost let Martin be taken, and in the end, he hadn’t even been the one to save Martin. Martin had saved _himself._

Jon let out a ragged gasp of mingled pain and relief. He grabbed Martin’s face, pulled him down, and kissed him, desperate and hard and messy.

Martin made a muffled noise of surprise, as well he might. In the entire time they’d been together, Jon had initiated a lot of physical contact—hugs, hand-holding, spooning gently on the couch, twining together in bed—but while this wasn’t their first kiss by any means, Martin had always been the one to initiate them before, usually proceeded with a gentle brush to his cheek and a soft _can I, Jon?_ Jon always acquiesced, of course. Martin’s kisses made him feel safe and warm in a way nothing ever had before. But he’d never been the one to go first. Jon’s attitude towards kissing was...weird, he supposed was the best way of putting it. He’d never been quite sure how he felt about it, and actually, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea in general. But he loved Martin, and he loved Martin’s kisses. He’d just never been quite sure how to go about starting it exactly. Here and now, though, nothing in him said to do anything different but grab Martin and try to convey without words all the emotions roiling through him.

Thankfully, Martin’s surprise lasted no more than a split second before he was returning the kiss, pulling Jon close as he did so. Jon relaxed into Martin’s arms. He’d come a long way since he’d told Martin not to put his trust in comfort anymore; he’d learned that, in this post-apocalyptic nightmare world he’d brought about, you had to take whatever comfort you could get. If you lost sight of even the smallest things, you were lost.

And Martin was far from a small thing.

“Jon?” Martin sounded worried. He swiped his thumb across Jon’s cheek, and that’s when Jon realized he was crying.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

“But you didn’t.” Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I _promise._ Wherever we end up, whatever we have to go through... _we_ will go through it. Together. I won’t leave you. I promised you that from the beginning.”

He sounded so strong, so determined. Jon wondered if Martin knew that he fell a little more in love with him every time he spoke. And he was right. If Jon was going to get through this, the _only_ way it would happen would be with Martin at his side.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too, Jon,” Martin replied. “More than anything.”

Jon held them together for a few moments more, soaking in Martin’s nearness, then nodded a couple of times and tilted his head back to kiss Martin again.

“Come on,” he said hoarsely, turning back to the path without letting go. “Miles to go before we sleep.”


End file.
